


I can keep it from the world

by Guest_12



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mild Gore, Schizophrenia, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guest_12/pseuds/Guest_12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Rated "M" for language.</p>
    </blockquote>





	I can keep it from the world

**Author's Note:**

> Rated "M" for language.

“He’s a menace that leaves chaos in his wake, people,” a smug voice chimes loud and breaks the once easy serenity engulfing the still room. The voice resounds in a deepen gravel, rumbling in its imitated slander as it pulls reluctant, sodden eyes from beyond the sleeved curvature of cradled knees. “He hinders our good men in blue in pursuing righteous justice and being of use to their tax dollars pay.” Peter stares into the darkness veiling his shared room. A soft sheen of moonlit silver blankets a lovely glamor to the furnishings and floor to wherever its gentle touch may embrace, the radiance splitting through the black detailing embedded into the large fixed window trimmed with heavy curtains. “He’s a monster in our mimicked hide, using his freakish abilities for his own perversions and narcissism. Do not believe his lies as truth when you find him confronted about these things, my good ladies!” He stares out the wide pane, the city bustling in beauty and life, only for him to turn away in shame.

Nothing is on: no phones playing on speaker or radio clocks screeching their alarm; no computer awaiting its master for use or television housing an old man’s face twisted in spite and accusations. “He’s an abuser of our civil rights, my fellow civilians, as he disrupts our already atrocious traffic to ensnare a captive audience to parade his so-called heroics. Dastardly, I know.” Peter feels it. He feels the stare bearing down its conceit and condemnation, the poisonous pull of the magnetic attractive persuading him to meet. He feels those waiting eyes readying for if he turns -- for when he turns, the venomous air hanging deathly over the deafening silence. A breath lodges in the young hero’s throat, a cry threatening to sob as it chokes in his hold. Ruefully, he turns his honey embellished eyes so that they may fall onto his room’s far corner, viewing the voice’s body twitch under his attention.

Standing tall and punctual, its form slanted to meet his view as it rests on Peter’s side of the mattress, is stationed an oak frame with a full body mirror lying sheathed in the hidden groves. Upon its reflective face nothing of this reality shows. The silk encumbered bed remains absent from its occupation’s activity, along with the end table adorn with a single lamp neighboring the owner’s cowering self.  Instead, an animated body stands imprisoned in the dim pane, the man emitting swagger as he twirls his cane about his finger negligently and his top hat tilting in greet. Peering below the silken rim, emotionless, bug eyes crease to a hidden smile as the mirage savors the weak gaze of his alter ego -- his true ego, his cane halting with a hard tap. He leans onto the wooden structure for support while he playfully poses; “Ladies and gentlemen, I do suggest that if you’ve eaten in the last hour that you deter your view for our next exhibit,” his voice becomes crisp and light in its mockery, his impersonated tone fading while the image takes upon the sound that is his own. With grace and a priming posture, the hallucination removes his hat with a slow descent, the appeal resting over the spider’s insignia upon its end. A chuckle murmurs pass the glass surface, the notes portraying daggers as it tears into the brunette watching with a sense of fatigue; “I shall now present to you ---- your very own,” a roll of drums resonates from the thin air about them as a dramatic pause is taken, “ _not_ -so-friendly neighborhood vigilante,” the illusion’s hand flies out with a rapid flick, the tips of his cane and hat barely scraping the surface of the mirror as they highlight the brunette’s coiled existence, “ _Spiderman_!”

The odd dream discards his props with a dismissive bother, their bodies disappearing beyond the oak pillar’s edge. Closer, the figure draws as he leans near the invisible barrier separating him from the physical plane, a fist at his hip while his right hand cradles his chin with a ponder twist to his mask’s visage; “Wouldn’t you look at that mangy hair, all unkempt and wild as his soul. His darken eyes staring into the oblivion in devil-prayer. It is truly the face of evil.” The red fingers squeak against the smooth surface barring him as they move with precision, his mirrored lens slithering to the obstacle in observation, “And, if you dare to venture close to this demon, you can see the devious plots that swirl wickedly within his dead, deceiving eyes. Oh, how fearsome. I’m getting the willies.”

“Shut up,” Peter murmurs as he burying his sight away to the folds of his pants’ fabric, his resolve to care melting to the rehashed ridicule his alter ego is always so eager to provide. Spiderman, though, only huffs at the sight and the exhausted tone still lingering in the air. The image props himself on his right arm that had been brought before him, his weight squishing the limb between the invisible blockade and his imaginary body. With a humored hum, a masked cheek rests merrily in its host’s palm, the hand’s twin gripping his hip for sass.

“Hmm -- Why? I mean,” his left hand brushes curtly at nothing while mirrored lenses tilt in a contemplative thought, a tone of uplifting acceptance marring his word, “yeah, Jay-Jay may be driving close to a heart attack with his amount of screaming, but -- ” His vowel drags slow and menacing from the delusion’s throat, his head lolling back to view its creator as he seethes with a playful mocking pitch, “that don’t mean he’s wrong.”

Peter’s grip on his pajama pants tightens to the accusation. He feels his body tremble, readying droplets moistening dry eyes. Resolve seizes a rigid hold over the young hero as he opts an attempt to snarl his reply though the words fall into a whining plea; “He is.”

Spiderman chuckles amusingly again, shaking his nonexistent head in hilarity, “Oh, really now?” His cranium pulls from his comfortable rest, his thin fingers catching his chin and hauling it into a meditative tip; “Let’s see. Jonah calls you a truculent threat, a public menace, a deceptive villain, a hardened crook, a treacherous nut’er, a degenerate pervert,” his hand rolls, “and a bunch of other things. Now!” His left leg flies out from its twist, his body straightening with the weighty momentum as his hands slap together in an attention-grasping-celebratory prayer; “ _Let’s look at you_ ,” Spiderman sneers greasily, his wrists maneuvering till his hands tilt and their fingers aim at Peter.

“You started off as a wannabe murderer,” the delusion chimes, his grasps falling into a shrug as they slither to his side, “but settled as a distraction for the police.” The gloved holds fluidly rest on the bends of his hips, “Now, every time you go out for -- wait. What's your current lie for Aunt May nowadays?” His left hand grips his chin while his index taps a rhythm in tune with his contemplative humming, an exclamation of realization breaks the tune as it pairs with a sharp snap emanating from his chin’s neglectful clutch, “Oh, right! Your totally-vague-and-not-at-all-sketchy-as-fuck ‘hobbies.’” Spiderman tilts his head with an audible clip of his tongue, “ _So_ not worrisome or fret worthy at all.” A hand rises to rest on his heart, “I’m sure Aunt May believes every word and is happy as a peach right now as she drinks her tea in the absent company of her dead husband _that you helped_ MURDER.” The scream vibrates the room with its fury, Peter jolting out of his curl as he stares with widen, streaming eyes as his alternate ego calms to a pleasant continuation after the escalated climax, “I’m sure she’s just fine. Just like the city you’ve helped put into ruins and the villains you fail to keep impound.” The figment shrinks in a faux pout, his words muffling in their enunciation as a form of babyish cooing, “ _Not so far off is he, Peter?_ ” A chuckle, “In fact, I think he’s being kind with his words.”

“I’m doing the best that I can -- !” The young man defends, offering an excuse so many have bestowed upon him though the words ring only hollow in his truth.

“‘THE BEST THAT YOU CAN’ got Gwen _killed_!” Spiderman hollers, a single fist stressing his words as he pounds to each example, “It made _Harry_ homicidal! It drove Connors fucking _insane_! He lost his fucking _creditability_ thanks to your fucking assistance and he's fucking _INSANE_! It stole two _lives_ from Mrs. Stacy and her boys!” The beating breaks into silence as the figment pushes at the glass barrier with hands and head, his face shading into a hostile glower, “It is to look _each_ dying man that saved your pathetic life in the eye _time_ and _time_ again and lie out a promise that you later _relish_ in breaking! The best that you can do is drive people who had the misfortune to possess your _cursed care_ into the brink of an unimaginable nightmare.” The spandex squeaks to the strain as the form beneath their gloves fists in rage, “You promised Captain Stacy that you would keep Gwen safe and STAY AWAY! You _lied_ to his dying face and she _fell_ to HER FUCKING DEATH with _you_ snapping her NECK! You promised Uncle Ben that _you_ would be better, that _you’ll_ take care of Aunt May --”

“I am!” Peter pleas, his hands pushing at his ears but the sound he fears echoes thunderous and plain.

“She doesn’t even _know_ that her husband’s death was avoidable,” the mirage hisses, pushing harder at his cage, “Because you’re too scared to see that hate. That _deserved loathing_.” A dry spit of laughter splatters in a lone note, “She’s home alone, barely scraping by as you make an _ass_ out of yourself --” Spiderman lifts himself away from his barrier, arms swirling in a flourish to demonstrate his shimmering, spandex suit dressed in blue and red. “-- In _this_ fucking kindergartner designed outfit when you --” The figure slams his fist against the glass before an accusing finger jars at the quivering brunette, “-- could be working hours and shifts for _income_. She’s starving because _you_ ,” a slam and a snarl from the hollering, “can’t _fucking_ ,” a clobber draws a whimper from the cowering, “decide on _ANYTHING_ _RIGHT_!” A cry sings in duet from the two halves, loud and broken to the sullen labor that gave them birth.

“She’s --”

“‘She’s’ _what_ , Peter?” Spiderman snarls, venom dripping with every word when a wrecked syllable rattles from the original’s throat. His mask squeals with the leaning of his head, the illusion cooing in scorn, “ _Is she_ fine ~~ ?” Another screech spews with the flicker of the fantasy’s visage shifting to the opposite side, “ _Is she_ okay ~~ ?” Peter feels himself curl to the face of his infamous self. The brunette cringes as the evident pouting wanes with its ominous calm, the dream’s swift movement shrieking piercingly as he slams his fists against the windowpane, the barrier clattering with the vigor of his anger’s storm; “WAKE THE FUCK UP, you _jackass_ ,” the hallucination seethes, “YOU know it and I know it ---- _She’s_ lying to _your_ face as much times as _you_ have lied to _her’s_.” Spiderman pulls to a minimal distance from the glass as he jerks a digit at his nose, scrunching the feature with the action, “The _crinkle_ of her _nose_ is always so telling, isn’t it?” His hand snaps away from his scowling countenance to uphold a single finger, “Just like when she told us that Santa Clause was real but couldn’t come because we didn’t have a chimney.” A twin rises in its sibling’s company, “Just like she said there’s no _‘monsters’_ in the dark.” A third crowds the air between the illusion’s cheek and the wall, “Just like when she told us that we had nothing to worry about when Mom and Dad left to _die_.” Two fingers curl back to his fist as a single digit salute wags at the disintegrating hero, “( _Another_ pair of victims you’ve helped _lead_ to their untimely _deaths_ , by the way.)” The suspended hand falls back to the clear blockade as the vision’s voice returns to its damning tone, “But at least _her_ reasons aren’t so _selfish_. Even when she knows we’re lying to her, she still wants us to be happy and not worry about her while we try to set up our own lives.” A haughty, reverberating pause catches Peter’s horrified awareness, a manic smile growing evidently beneath the Spider’s malice shaded glare, “You even _lie_ to Wade. Tell me, Peter, why are you _lying_? Hmm?” The young brunette feels his teeth clinch, tight and rigid, in a mass, frantic fusion of overwhelming rage for the image’s implication and a suffocating sensation for the possible articulations to come and be honest in their existence, “Why do _you_ care so much for _this_ hero-worshiping, genetic-experiment-gone-wrong, FREAK --” Peter shoots to his feet, a snarl embedded into his features at the insult though fear still encumbers his stature, “-- of a mercenary that’s been trying _so hard_ to turn things _around_ for the _likes_ of _you,_ hmm?”

“Shut up,” Peter growls, horrified apprehension oozing into his manner as his fist clinch strict.

“Huh,” Spiderman drawls merrily, a hand rising to cup his ears as his voice sings in derision then falls to a solemn deadpan;  “ _Sorry. I didn’t quite hear that_ over the sound of your DE-NI-AL.”

“I said,” The brunette drags as he stalks to the mirror’s face, a hand resting near the head that turns to meet its closer company while its opposite heaves behind the plumage of chestnut hair. “ _ **SHUT UP!**_ ” The fist plummets to the windowpane with a stern tenacity and a boiling ferocity, the surface painfully yielding as the image of Spiderman splinters and mercifully shatters into a mess of shimmering shards. Glass rains and spits around the heaving man’s form, pieces of the debris flying madly about in lunacy with the impact’s force. Minor cuts and wedgings bleed a steady stream as the corpse of the mirror pools at Peter’s feet, the hero too lost in silence to notice.

A build of saliva brings the young brunette back in a slow daze, his swallow bulging as his throat claws it down. Hazily, he takes in new surroundings, his gory fist pulling in a drag as it relinquishes five measly shards to its fated weak plunge. Cracks and leeway entrench and mar the wood backing. Bits of the mirror’s whole remains captured by the oak frame’s corners and lodged into the flimsy flesh of Peter’s knuckles, the hand bleeding and healing over the abrasive material. A timid step is stolen in retreat; prickles of wreckage bury themselves into the bare heels. A yelp of pain barks from the young hero before he cautiously turns to survey the field of reflective gleams. Splotches of blood collect upon the surfaces of the slivers and disperse in a stain against the cream carpeting.

Peter huffs an affectionate, irregular grin to his face as he reasons internally, _Wade is --_

Laughter, crisp and sharp and unnerving, barks haughtily in malicious delight, its voice booming thunderous vertigo down the young man’s body as its wavering notes of mirth vibrate aloud. Peter’s eyes shoot wide in response to the impossible blare as he jaw becomes lax in its shock. A blur of brown highlights the hero’s whiplash only for his teeth to clench tight in horror. Slowly, he tracks the flickering lives of jovial characters spoiled in his colors and shudder with delight -- all laughing in a massive unison, all laughing in chorus -- come to life. Peter steps back from the tiny army, their noise growing and growing and growing in their deafening choir of senseless clamor. He shakes his head slowly in disbelief, a wish that the motion will dispel this nightmare from his sight, as he slithers down the ruined oak frame. His shirt rides in a scrunch against the surface, splinters and shavings of glass digging into his skin; Peter listens to the laughter fade into sardonic words, wishing anew that they had only kept going as his pain numbs to their veracity while he rests in the sea of Spiderman.

“ **What?** ” They all jeer in harmony, their conceit lacing each voice compiling the legion, “ **You thought breaking the mirror would get _rid_ of me? Get rid of _us_ \-- the truth that you’re so _afraid_ of facing alone? That _thing_ that’s always lurking _just_ beyond your consciousness? Well, I’m sorry to say that ain’t going to happen, _'bug-boy.'_ As long as you live so do _we_ and so does the _truth_. I may be the _lie_ you hide so snugly behind, but you’re the fucking _monster_ that I have to harbor --** ”

A loose clutch, soft and welcoming, soothes away the crumpled fabric gathering at the scrunched slopes of his shoulder. Peter constricts his sight into darkness at the warm touch of slender fingers lacing a meek hold around his chin, tilting leisurely his blinded vision to their host. Sheepishly, the ghost trails its hands north, brushing the bend of his cheeks and comforting the creases of his tightened eyes. Warmness fills the young, trembling hero as the delicate fingers explore his aged face, hazel eyes ruefully opening to face the image he feared to find. Gwen, with all her grace and beauty, smiles sullenly to her passed lover, the form as sweet and depressing as her blue eyes glistening in unshed tears. Her lips tremble in a battle to hold her sobs as a new scar is brushed by her thumb.

Peter gives into the warmth of her hands, closing his eyes to relish the lost feeling. He breathes her scent and recalls the sweetness her perfume had held, the sour spike it first offers before its chemical allure resonates. He breathes and for a moment everything calms, his view slowly opening to stare easily at the cuff of her coarse, green coat. His sight trails the sleeve, admiring each ripple the fabric holds, to her necklace glimmering in the moonlight. Then, a sickening crack resounds, murdering the quiet with its grotesque presence. A scream bubbles below the horror asphyxiating him, the terrified man watching with panic as Gwen’s head lolls to her shoulder in repeat - numb and lifeless and gone. Her neck twists with the weight hanging lamely at one end, the smooth curvature of the pale pillar distorted with vile memory and fact.

Blood drips into a slow cascade from her nose. The lights of her eyes, once sparkling in her brilliance and joy for living, die in a show of silent agony that beckons for reason or rhyme. The brunette’s hands fly to her failing grip as death corrupts her heat into a bitter chill, his shaking digits sweeping away her flaxen tresses caught in gravity’s pull. Words of mindless prayer and pleas tumble from his trembling lips, tears marring his coherency until, with her confident voice, Gwen silences him in a velvety tone fastened with dejected sadness;  “-- The failure that I had to pay for.”

Peter gaps for a word, an apology, but only the shuffling of glass succumbing to an individual’s footing echoes in the stillness. Slowly, Peter turns to the body leering over him, watching as Harry kneels to meet his sodden view. The young CEO eases away the undulation disfiguring the image of his dark suit before his uncalloused hands twist into a fist over his lap, his Oxfords creasing under his squatted weight. His estranged friend grimaces, a look of bitter sympathy maiming his handsome features that peer pass his fair colored bangs. Dark eyes scour his face with jerking motion, hope illuminating his visage before grave bleakness settles deep; “-- The liar that killed what little was left of me from my illness,” he chokes, his hands tightening together in his recalled hurt.

“-- A disappointment I’m glad I’d never be able to see,” a gruff voice sneers, ripping the young hero’s attention away to see his uncle loom over his cowering body. The man glares with prodigious odium and repulsion, the mask of sweat still pungent as blood oozes from beneath the grey fabric of his shirt and red flannel.

“-- A regret I have to live with throughout my imprisonment,” a softer voice calls, Dr. Connors gripping his stubbed arm with a crestfallen expression as Peter’s crying eyes befall him.

“-- Her _murder_ ,” Captain Stacy growls.

“-- Our killer,” Mary and Richard chime, arms interlocked for a lonely embrace as they stare down their son with forlorn contempt. Peter gapes helplessly as their eyes burn into him a fury he deserved to cater, the light of the moon highlighting their features and rage. He gapes and cries and watches as they move to the sound of boots thundering in their approach. His parents split to show the broad window lined with a silver glow, his mother accompanying Connors as the brothers make room for the source of the crescendo.

Red leather devours the light of the moon as it forces its meal to emphasize its massive frame, russet belts clinging to the curves of the strong body. The custom boots stand apart. The shoulders remain stiff. The chest heaves with its restricted rage. Fists twitch in withheld assault. Resentment and wrath mutilate the mask hugging tight to Wade’s face, the mercenary looming over the trembling hero with hate radiating from his being. Peter pleads in silence as his beseeching eyes beg for mercy, for time to explain and quell the swelling temper sharpened by betrayal. A boot thunders down before the cowering man, glass submitting to his weight and force as a finger glares down the realized traitor.

Peter flinches to the true face of vitriol, watching as the larger man’s muscles flexes to his discipline and abhorrence. A glare blazes beyond blank lenses as they bore weight to the guilt and shame suffocating the brunette. Spit and snarls fuse into an atrocious sound, shooting through the gaps of clench teeth as Wade refuses to speak in his furious grimace. Fear locks away the younger eyes with a fearful squeeze, his body tensing to the expected onslaught obligated to drown his senses in agony that could only rival the pain of those he damned. The room will convulse to the bursting roar that shall bellow in shredded notes from the immortal’s throat, words twisted in the inexpressible hurt and anguish brought upon him from Peter’s flaw. Heat from fire and seething shall lick at his flesh as the world around them melts into obligatory oblivion, skinning and maiming him for his sins before his questions roll in depressive tears. Peter jerks to every hiss of breath, to every stroke of warmth, to every brush of air as he waits for the explosion of pain to steal his mind and destroy him.

But, nothing comes.

Hazel eyes glimpse pass the thin curtains of their lashes, caution hauling them meekly to welcome the mercenary home only for the young hero’s heart to halt in its swift seizure of sorrow for the towering man, whom had always appeared stoic throughout his pain and heartache and misgivings, had wilted to a disconsolate form of despondency. Once taunt shoulders droop and curl before a form struggling to remain aloft; fisted hands wane limply by his side. The extended boot’s leg loses its tense knee, his thigh twitching prior to its weakening as it pulls back an inch with a noisy drag. Despair dilutes the fuming vehemence into a passing thought, the misery contagious and overbearing with the helpless face now lax in will.

Wade’s white eyes stare their young lover down, pouring their woe in an encumbering cascade. His shoulders shudder in a shrug as his hands and mouth feebly sweep for a word, but a strangled breath dies on his silent tongue as his maw closes wordless disdainfully. Shame pulls the visage of Deadpool aside, his structure dwindling in coercion as it corrodes emotionally upon itself. Peter reaches for the depressing form, fingers scratching the air for leverage despite his arm hanging heavy and flaccid;  “-- My abuser,” the once mercilessly killer murmurs feebly, a throttled sob twisting around the words into a heart retching peal as it shudders in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Peter breathes low and hurt. Before him, his Wade clad in red and mayhem twitches profusely, humiliation creeping into his motions as he fails continuously to face the hazel eyes shining with tears and honesty. The hidden comfort embedded into the hue of coffee and captured sunlight shields away, staring absently with purpose a spot far from the young, breaking hero. Peter’s hand falls as his lover refuses to look at him, resting in the shards vacant of Spiderman.

“I’m sorry,” he cries louder, tears marring his words as they fly. The mercenary visibly stiffens excruciatingly to the voice of the brunette, his body coiling farther away to his own whimpering snivel.

“No!” Peter howls in fear. Around him, the lurking crowd blinks and vanishes, leaving behind darkened silhouettes that persist in their shape’s legacy of secreting unconditional condemnation and displeasure in an unsentimental gale. Shards dig into the brunette’s palm as he crawls towards the shivering man, dragging only a single inch in accomplishment before faltering to stillness with a dawning state of horrific shock. He witnesses Wade shudder at his words. He watches as the boot pulls instinctively away. He cries harder as the toned arms rises to a scarlet torso in alarm. Panic warped vacant, pallid eyes vanish in a watery mosaic.

“I’m sorry,” the bawling man pleas, digits scrapping the carpet and debris as they drag back to their body, “Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry --” _I don’t mean it. I try not to mean it. It’s not true._ “I’m sorry!” Pity filters pass the fabric features making Deadpool, offering and lightening Peter to a hopeful smile, merely for resolution to plummet into a steely presence upon the snarling countenance, the retiring mercenary finding a hardened stance before a retreating step is taken.

“Puh’lease!” Peter screams. His fingers curl in fists as they try to hold onto a disintegrating past. Slivers and scraps of large fragments haul close to the hero’s heart as the brunette cringes to the resilient withdrawing belonging to Wade. “Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He feels nothing more than the hard glares of his audience and friend; the trickling sensation of liquid running from his face and fingers; the cold brink of an oblivion offering sweet promises of consumption though teasing him with the dragging seconds. Peter’s breath catches on frantic moans, his begging hiccuping out in a watery whine as the silhouettes steal the brilliant mass of cherry into their solitary form once more; “Puh’lee-hee-hee’ase --!” _Forgive me._ “Don’t leave me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by Jeff Williams' song, "Mirror, Mirror."


End file.
